


Daedalus

by flyingisland



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Established Relationship, Gentle Sex, Izuo - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 10:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7570618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingisland/pseuds/flyingisland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes looking at Izaya for too long feels the same as staring straight into the sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daedalus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemoninagin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoninagin/gifts).



Izaya presses gentle kisses down his stomach, eyes hooded with thick, black lashes as his lips brush softly against marred skin. He’s picturesque in the dwindling evening light—the image of everything that Shizuo has ever thought of beauty if he’d ever been forced to put a picture to the word. 

Milky, unmarked skin, eyes like deep, dark chocolate, silky hair and a soft pulse beating under thin wrists. Long limbs, soft but defined. He’s the image of a model from a magazine, the sort of person that Shizuo wouldn’t even bat an eye if he were to see him standing next to Kasuka in one of those trashy tabloids.

A pink tongue darts out, eager and hot against his skin. It draws a line, stable and confident, down to his navel before a knowing gaze flicks upward to meet his own.

“What’s with that face?” Izaya asks him, “Is Shizu-chan thinking too hard again?”

The mirth in his eyes mirrors that of a doting mother looking across the playground at her child—or maybe a newlywed watching their spouse struggle with doing their own laundry for the first time. Izaya isn’t any more experienced with things like being close to people or even making love as he is, but in times like these, it feels as though he’s light years ahead.

Cool and collected, Izaya could probably perform brain surgery and make it look easy. Even if the patient inevitably died, Shizuo is sure that he’d be as cocky as if he’d miraculously saved them.

But his own hands tremble. His knees knock. He touches Izaya with nervous fingers, purpling bruises over that perfect skin despite his best efforts. Izaya wants to be taken wholly. He wants to be marked by a monster. But even in moments like these, when arousal weighs heavier than a billion bricks in his belly, he can’t bring himself to do much more than watch.

A “pillow princess” is what Izaya calls him. He isn’t sure what that means, but he knows Izaya well enough that it pisses him off.

Izaya’s fingers press inside of him, warm and slick, prying and greedy. Shizuo knows that he could go in without preparation—they both do—and he’ll never understand why Izaya touches him like this, like he might split open if his touches aren’t as gentle as one might be with a virgin. 

As though Izaya is the monster and Shizuo is the human just barely holding on.

Izaya murmurs against his thigh as he slides his fingers in and out. He kisses the head of a bashful erection pressed against his cheek. Shizuo feels as though he’s gazing at the sun—as though he’s burned his wings off long ago and he’s only waiting for the inevitable moment in which he’ll find himself barreling down to the ground.

But it never comes. Izaya’s always there to catch him, every time—pressing soft lips against his wet cheeks. Pretending that the Monster of Ikebukuro doesn’t always cry after sex. Pretending that there’s no reason for him to be crying at all.

As though he’s normal. As though any of this could be called _normal_. 

Wet lips against his erection, cool hands gripping the base. His eyes roll up to the ceiling as he takes in the sensations overwhelming his senses—the fingers pressing against just the right spot inside of him, the tongue rolling along that place under the head that always has him seeing stars. 

And before he finds himself tumbling over the edge, Izaya pulls away, kissing him as chastely as a man can kiss another man in situations like these, before pushing himself inside.

“Shizu-chan,” he whispers, breath heavy with need, stare wavering with something that causes a dull ache to creep along the inside of Shizuo’s chest, “Shizu-chan is really… beautiful.”

The world might fall away—reality around them shattering into a billion pieces of jagged glass. The sun might melt down and burn away the earth, but Izaya is holding him close, rocking inside of him, calling him things that he could have never dreamed that another person would ever call him.

Beautiful.

Handsome.

Worthy of love.

It’s a rollercoaster with this man—fighting in the streets, making love late into the night. Hiding secret notes in jacket pockets and lunchboxes. Feigning innocence when word gets out that Orihara Izaya has been spotted traipsing around Ikebukuro with a series of small bruises adorning his neck. 

It’s as though time has bent them into a shape that he can no longer recognize—hate into love, a disgusting monster and an unlovable man into the sorts of people who care about whether or not they hurt someone. 

It’s dizzying sometimes, whatever they have here. It’s so beyond his realm of understanding that he can’t ever bring himself to comprehend it.

Just as they are—Orihara Izaya and Heiwajima Shizuo—just two lonely men sharing a bed, having sex, going through the motions of a normal relationship.

And nothing else.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe if Izaya holds him like this a little longer, the names and the pain, the countless men after their lives and the friends who have no idea that any of this is going on—it won’t mean a thing. It will not matter at all.

Izaya bucks roughly against him, a curse and a name melding together into an indecipherable moan against his lips. A heat finds its way deep inside of Shizuo, and even when he cleans himself later, he can’t ever seem to wash that feeling away. 

And maybe when he steps out of the shower, he stares at his reflection for a little too long. He tracks the line of his jawbone, the pout against his lips. He looks into his eyes without faltering for the first time that he can remember since he was a child.

Maybe he thinks of Izaya, calling him beautiful. Maybe his chest fills with a dangerous emotion—something so light and so hopeful that he might just float away into the night.

If only Izaya weren’t there to catch him, arms around his waist, face pressed gently against his back. 

He might be a ship seeking refuge in the clouds, and maybe Izaya is the anchor, holding him firmly to the ground.

But right now, in this moment—he feels stupid for even thinking it—

Izaya feels more like the wings carrying him further and further toward the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm having a little bit of trouble getting through lemoninagin's 'Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained' because every time that I start it, her beautiful writing inspires me to write! I had no drive tonight, so I told myself, 'This would be a good time to get some reading done.'
> 
> But, of course, Lemon strikes again! About fifty short oneshots later, maybe I will finally finish her wonderful series. 
> 
> So thank you for reading! Sorry that this one is so weird!


End file.
